A Tapestry

In tribute to the grace of loving long
and well, I offer this, a simple rhyme
to spin our lives together as in song,
a tapestry, eternal, spun of time.

The narrow, cobbled, stony street we saw
where players danced and sang in days of yore
has yet to touch this lover’s feet. In awe
I realize that now I love you more.

A piece of steel upon a knap of flint
begets a spark that will, with luck, ignite
We came together as if heaven meant
to purge, for good, the dark abyss of night.

To warm my soul within this surging fire,
to fuel our love is all that I desire.

34

A call has come we can’t ignore;
the bells of glory chime
to gather o­n a distant shore
a crew from out of time.

We come to grieve the many dead,
the shipmates lost back then
and as we hear the tributes read
our thoughts return again

to ports of call in foreign lands
a distant, brighter day
when life was held in younger hands
ashore and underway.

We listen to the bugles call
and wipe away the tears
as names and faces we recall
across the many years.

Now as the circle draws an end
forgive the tears we weep
to see our gray and weathered friend
committed to the deep.


~ © 2005 By: W.D. Neighbors ~




"I wish to have no connection with any ship that does not sail fast for I intend to go In Harm’s Way."
John Paul Jones to M. de Chaumont on 16 November 1778.

Shining Moments

Those shining moments in your youth,

they self define us, leave a scar,

emboss us, subtly, with their truth.

They serve to make us who we are.

Those blazing banners in the night,

the golden etchings set in stone.

Forever shining with a light

for other eyes but not our own.

For Me Alone

Why is it yours to pray for me,
precisely choose the course I set,
to tune the scope that I might see
your plan for me? My friend, I’ve yet
to fathom your intolerance
for those who sow and reap their fate
without your forced benevolence,
advice that won’t abide debate.

The scriptures of the universe
appear before our mortal eyes,
we stretch our minds to read the verse,
to comprehend, to realize,

the words are etched on every stone,
for you, my friend-- for me alone.



“I render infinite thanks to God for being so kind as to make me alone the first observer of marvels kept hidden in obscurity for all previous centuries.”

~Galileo Galilei

Priorities

That life will run this unrelenting pace

until the final syllable of time

does not, by any trial or judgment, place

an urgency on this, my lazy rhyme.

In motion, slow and slower, I will scribe

with frequent breaks to fill a cup with brew.

I change my cup when tea I would imbibe;

it’s nearly Sunday night and I’m not through.

Molasses, that of winter, oooh’s and aahh’s;

the tortoise’s have stopped  to wait in vain.

I write a letter, comma… now a pause…

as hope of verse completion starts to…. “Wayne!!

Your honey do’s aren’t done! It’s Sunday night!!”

“I’ll do them when I get this couplet right.”

On Leaving

On leaving Christmas presence in the air,
on holiday from work, or maybe not--
the spirit feels, as winter, cold and bare,
the body, now a temple sense forgot.

The reasons for the Christmas presents bought
are gone, like bows and papers in a bag
somewhere behind a fence. The hearts besot
with cheerfulness with milk and honey, sag
from Christmas dark regret, to new years sulk and drag.

© Copyright 2006 W.D. Neighbors

Of wind

I’ve often set my mind to solve
the riddle of the wind
that gently rocks the sleeping child,
that wills the trees to bend.

The magic of a lover’s touch
I’ve pondered in its turn,
that soothes as gentle, velvet ice,
that sets the soul to burn.

The love that keeps a body warm,
that, appetites’, well please,
can turn about on this and that
and bring you to your knees.

The wind that fuels the raging storm,
that feeds the surging seas
will whirl about in seconds flat
and, blows the gentle breeze.

Of wind and love I ponder, yet
no form or face perceive
but here my heart and there my sail--
of each would I receive.

© Copyright 2004 Dean Neighbors

Well

I’m crazy for other reasons

but I so love a storm

from here inside my comfort zone

with coffee, safe and warm.

And I believe in kiss for kiss

instead of tit for tat,

that dreams are love’s reality;

can you imagine that?

Our words are tools of verity,

and verse extends our scope.

The heart’s a harbor built for love--

the soul, a well of hope.

Epitaph

The poems form a universe

within the writers mind,

totality in metered verse,

infinity defined.

The poet gives his soul away

in portions he decides,

with thoughts that ebb and flow to play

emotions like the tides.

He writes of love and other things

he might have found in me,

of broken hearts and Angel's wings

I've lost and found at sea--

of parenthood and common sense,

of brothers on the wall,

revisiting their innocence

and other ports of call.

An honest bard he re-ignites

the glaring torch of truth.

With wells of bitter ink he writes

the epitaph of youth.